The Damnation Affair

the ground wrong and her neck snapped, inhabiting the still-warm flesh would be child’s play. Or, maybe Russ had felt the cold breath, and—

Don’t think like that. Solve the problems right in front of you, Gabe.

Jack breathed a soft curse, the mare began to shudder, and his left hand was at its gun before he caught himself. Bullets wouldn’t do anything against mud-things. Cold iron or blunt force to shatter their coherence was the only way—and the half-dozen or so who were rising were already turning blindly in his direction, making wet snuffling sounds under the lashing rain.

I’m sorry. There ain’t no choice now.

He put the spurs to the mare, and she leapt. Clods of mud flew from her hooves, and he bent in the saddle, urging every ounce of speed out of her.

* * *

Joe swore at him, for the bay was covered in mud, shaking, foam-spattered, and probably near ridden to death. Gabe answered with a term that was a near anatomical impossibility, and the chaos enveloped him. Hiram Greenfarb was passing out torches, Capran’s Dry Goods  was alive with a crowd as he passed out scythes and other implements, and the Lucky Star was a poked anthill. The jail was open, and Gabe arrived at a dead run to find Tils and Doc Howard there already, tin stars pinned to their vests. Tils was red-eyed and smelled of rye, but his jaw was set and he appeared at least mostly sobered-up.

“What we got?” Gabe yelled, and Doc swore at him with a mixture of profound relief and irritation, bracing an ancient shotgun against his shoulder as he watched the street outside.

“Where the hell is Russ?” Paul Turnbull appeared from the back room, a bloody rag tied around his head. “We ain’t seen no one from the outlying farms, even though that damn thing’s been beating itself senseless. The graveyard looks like someone stirred it with a stick—Salt got us to drag him out there, and he threw down a boundary. Then he passed out, I got him upstairs with the whores. Some wounded, mostly fools hurting themselves. South end of town’s a mess; the Chinee are having a time of it too. Guess their chartermage died last night.”

Now that’s interesting. The cabinets set along one wall were all unlocked, he found the one he wanted and shook his hat off. His eyes burned with grit and his heart galloped along far too fast for comfort. “Shit. South end of town?”

“South and west. Western charterstone got hit by lightning. Goddamn thing shattered. Where’s Russ?”

I don’t want to guess. “Don’t know. Get Granger, he’s the closest thing to a chartermage we’ve got otherwise.” The charterstone was hit? Goddamn. No wonder the boundary’s broken.

Thankfully, Tils just set his jaw and took off when Paul pointed at him. Doc nodded, once. “I’m off for the Star; the girls are making bandages and Ma Ripp’s there. So far everything’s holding at the south end of town, but I don’t fancy the chances of the outliers.”

“Serves ’em right, outside the charter!” Paul hollered, but Doc just bared his yellowing teeth and left. The door banged open, and it was Granger—a paper-thin nonentity of a man, but more solid now that his wife was probably locked in the attic of their neat little two-story house and not looming over him.

“Where’s the damn chartermage?” Granger’s graying hair stood up in wild tufts, he shook the water from his hat and clapped it firmly back on his head. “And Lordy, Sheriff, what the hell happened to you?”

“Got caught in the rain.” The belt loaded with extra ammunition wrapped around his hips, and he breathed into the sudden weight. He grabbed at the canvas satchel he had checked just last week, settled the strap diagonally across his body, and jammed his own hat firmly on his wet, filthy hair. “You come with me. Paul, stay here and wait for the other deputies. They should be along any moment.”

“Not so sure, they all live south of Pig Street.” But Turnbull just waved at him. “Nobody’s seen the schoolmarm today either, Gabe. Are you—”

I hope she’s at home. “Well, then, guess I’d better go find her. Come on, Granger. Limber up your charm-throwing and let’s see what the hell’s happening out there.”

“Always in the mud,” Granger muttered. “You’d think they’d attack in the dry season. Shitfire.”

A hard barking laugh surprised Gabe, and then it was outside again, the storm overhead rattling and smashing every inch of sky. He turned south, peering out from under the flapping awning over the jail’s front, and a confusion of men’s voices and high horse-screams broke through the rain. He wasted no more words, and behind him Granger puffed to keep up with the sheriff’s long loping strides. Mud sucked and splashed, and all Gabe could think about was if Catherine had made it safely to her little cottage.

The sooner he dealt with this mess, the sooner he could find out.

Chapter 30

Her throat ached.

Cat stirred. There was something soft underneath her, but it was so cold. The shivering began, great waves of it passing through her, and when she sought to open her eyes and push herself up, she discovered two things.

One was that it made no difference whether her eyelids were open or closed. The dark was complete, phantom-traceries of colors she could not name bursting as she blinked. She could feel the lids closing and opening; her eyes were so dry they scraped. Perhaps she was blind?

Dear God, no.

The other thing was silence. She could hear her own heartbeat, and a sliding sound when she moved, her riding habit rasping across some other cloth. There was no thunder, no lightning.

What happened?

She had been riding; she remembered that much. Across the flats, the black mare giving a good account of herself. Then, confusion. Something had happened—a figure cut from black paper rising up, a geyser of earth spewing heavenward, concussive blasts of lightning and an immense sound tumbling her from the saddle. It bent over her, the thing, and consciousness had fled her.

Cat frowned—or at least, she thought she was frowning, her face twisting on itself. Her Practicality had flashed, blue-white to match the lightning, and the thing had hissed at her. Its breath was so cold the rain flashed into spatters of ice, a chill-fog rising like white steam from the streets of Boston on sunny winter mornings.

Then, nothing.

She patted about her with trembling hands. The softness was a pile of cloth, and the sounds of her movement fell away into the vast darkness. Her throat burned as she swallowed; her side cramped with pain as her ribs protested the treatment she had endured.

“Robbie?” she whispered, and the word vanished, swallowed by the all-encompassing dark. Then, a little louder, “Jack?”

No answer. Am I dead? No, my heart beats, I breathe. Am I blind? Or…

She swallowed through the dry pain, held up her fingers. Concentrated, breathing as deeply as she could. Two of her corset stays were broken, and she had to be careful lest they jab at her in a most distracting manner.

The dim glow clinging to her fingers scored her dark-sensitized eyes. Still, she blinked several times, tears of relief welling up. The simplest of light-charms, mancy responding sluggishly to her call, but still wonderfully welcome.

She gazed about her.

The softness underneath her was a pile of discarded, rotting clothing on flat sterile earth. The chamber was large, and its walls were rock. Moisture clung to the stone surfaces, and in the distance she saw a fluid glimmer— water, catching and holding the light she was producing.

At least I shall not die of thirst. I do hope it is potable.

She examined the clothing underneath her. There was no rhyme or reason to the pile—dresses, petticoats, frock coats, torn stained shirts, even some articles of children’s garb. She tugged the locket free of her dress’s